


Tangent and Secant

by Wojelah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wojelah/pseuds/Wojelah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“... and you might be alone. Which you should never be. Don’t be alone, Doctor.”</p><p>“But they died, Jack.  And I am sorry.  But you cannot run away.”</p><p>---</p><p>Tangent: </p><p>n. 1. a straight line or plane that touches a curve or curved surface at a point, but if extended does not cross it at that point. 2. a completely different line of thought or action.</p><p>adj. 1. touching, but not intersecting, a curve or curved surface.</p><p>Secant:</p><p>n. 1. a straight line that cuts a curve in two or more parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangent and Secant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/gifts).



“... and you might be alone. Which you should never be. Don’t be alone, Doctor.”

He sits on the bench in Central Park for hours. Long enough that when he stands, it’s in a wild flurry of startled pigeons. He wants to crush the page he’s holding, wants to crumple it in a ball and toss it over the edge of the bridge and watch the water blur the type, wants to tear it into shreds and howl at the sky. In the end, he folds it carefully, tucks it into his jacket pocket and walks back to the TARDIS.

(He’ll find it again, years later, when he’s looking for a small wind-up monkey to distract a guard, and despite the immediacy of the peril, his fingers will linger, and he’ll feel the heart-ache all over again. But he’ll be glad to have remembered it.) 

\----

“But they died, Jack. And I am sorry. But you cannot run away.”

He runs anyway. The freighter takes him on, takes him to Ratilaxis, takes the name he gives them (what it is, he forgets almost as soon as he’s stepped off the ship) and doesn’t ask him questions. He hops from ship to station to ship, changing names, changing professions, moving on. Memory lives in stillness. He learned that long ago. He’s so very good at keeping busy.

(He doesn’t hop. Doesn’t use his wristlet, not once, not for months, no matter how easy it would be, no matter how sticky the situation. The memory of Gwen’s hand as she gave it to him weighs so heavy it makes him ache. He won’t touch it. And he won’t take it off.)

\----

He goes on holiday.

The TARDIS is curiously unopinionated on the subject. She doesn’t fuss, doesn’t reroute, doesn’t groan or grumble. Their landings are smooth, even when he does leave the handbrake on. He visits cities and snowscapes and vasty wildernesses, talking to everyone or no one as the fancy strikes him.

(He wanders. He doesn’t care what direction.)

\----

He goes wherever the road takes him.

He’s an opportunist, always has been. He looks for openings and takes them, moves on when his feet start to itch. He’s had centuries to practice. He changes identities as easily as he changes his shorts, leaving as a mechanic on the same ship that delivered him in the guise of a merchant prince. 

(He wanders. He’ll take whichever opportunity lands him farthest from Earth.)

\----

He feels Jack before he sees him. It helps. He can turn round and go, if he can’t be sure of avoiding an encounter. He doesn’t want Jack, not now. He doesn’t want anyone, even the ones that come looking for him. He doesn’t want reminding. He doesn’t want coaxing. He doesn’t want anything. He doesn’t really want to wander, but it’s easier than holding still.

(Once, just once, he catches sight of the Captain. The face is the same, even if the coat has been shed for a startlingly green sarong. The set of the shoulders is new, though. New, and wrong, and he can’t fix that, not now, maybe not ever.)

\----

The first time, he’s startled. It’s a flash across a room - a quick glimpse of a rawboned face and too-familiar eyes, and he’s sure he’s imagining things. The second time, he’s confused. Time Lords, he knows. And timelines are funny things. He knows that too - couldn’t possibly forget. But he’s playing an ambassador from New Midi-Cairo, and he never could figure out how to knot the damn cloths at his hips, and an inadvertent display is not, for once, to his advantage. By the time he’s no longer distracted, the man he’s looking for has disappeared.

(The third time, he’s nearly certain. It’s something in the walk, and the lift of the chin, and the line of his back, too straight under something unseen but too heavy. And the eyes. Always the eyes. That’s when he starts laying plans. Even if he doesn’t know what he wants from them.)

\----

He’s caught out on Staryb Nine. He’s amidst the throngs of the Blossom Festival, one among many at the railing over the harbor, watching the lanterns sing. He’s there, watching, and then there’s a flash and a prickling he can’t ignore, and then a tall, solid body inserts itself next to him, elbows on the rail, staring over the water.

“Nice view,” Jack Harkness offers.

\----

“Spectacular,” the familiar stranger answers. The smile he offers is neutral and friendly and utterly unforthcoming. Jack hadn’t been entirely sure, not 100%, and he’s still not. He doesn’t know why the Doctor wouldn’t just greet him by name. Still, that absolute lack of expression is a hard skill to come by. Not the usual reaction of your usual random meet-on-the-street. It’s idle curiosity, he tells himself. Idle curiosity and nothing more. That’s all that keeps him there. 

“Buy you a drink?” asks Jack. 

\----

He says yes. He doesn’t know why. 

\----

Two glasses in, Jack still isn’t sure. He doesn’t really care.

\----

Some things never change. Jack may be one of them, but so is his ability to flirt. The Doctor knows Jack suspects. He also knows Jack’s not certain. 

He doesn’t know why he agrees to follow Jack back to his rooms.

That might be a lie. He doesn’t care.

\----

It’s when he agrees to come with him that Jack really begins to doubt. There’s reserve, and there’s completely out of character. Still, he’s handsome enough, and Jack likes his smile. He’s had worse reasons.

When they kiss, he remembers another time.

That's when he knows he's right. Despite the change. Maybe, now, because of it.

\----

He doesn’t stay. He can’t. Doesn’t want to, even if he could. Knows he doesn’t. He knows where Jack’s heading. Knows where they sync, knows past and nearly present and future for him. It drives him out of the bed and into his clothing. Jack just watches.

It isn’t till his hand is on the latch that Jack calls his bluff.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. For whatever it was. For whomever it was.”

He can’t breathe. Can’t turn around. Can only lean his head against the door for a moment, then force himself upright. He manages a nod before he leaves.

(Later, on the TARDIS, he still can’t find an answer. Jack’s voice hangs heavy in his ears, comfort and burden all at once. He can’t find the words, but he can find the signal from Jack’s wrist comp, and he can send a time and location. And if that’s terrible meddling with the timelines, well, it’s not like hasn’t done it before.)

\----

The rooms are quiet as he dresses. He’s done playing this role, at any rate. He’s been bored for a week. The search for the Doctor has only been a distraction. He supposes he can at least admit it now. 

There’s a beep at his wrist, and it freezes him in his tracks.

_1900 Std. Chronic. Agamalfi’s. Sinistrel. C.E. 5400 x10^5 (Sol. Relative 2009)._

The buttons feel strange under his fingers. Unused. Untouched. It’s only muscle memory that has him entering the details. He remembers to grab his duffle. His papers, his persona, flutter on the desk as he goes.

(Later, in the bar, he’ll look across a crowded room and see the same eyes, in a face he still knows, and he’ll take the offered kindness for what it is. Alonso is kind, and gentle, and Jack is only human. Mostly. And the salute Jack offers the Doctor -- it’s honest. He’d thought he’d forgotten the concept. Perhaps not.)


End file.
